


i bet on losing dogs

by lanyons



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Codependency, M/M, Post-Canon, ghost!henry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19459846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyons/pseuds/lanyons
Summary: Richard and Francis return to the old house, but they are not alone.





	i bet on losing dogs

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has way too many different ideas & voices & tones & I don't think it really goes anywhere? but I really just wanted to write something after exams so here we are I guess

They go back to the old house.

For the most part, it is unchanged. Solemn-faced portraits still line the hall; potted palms cast their spidery shadows across the ceiling. The air is heavy with a silence that neither of them dares to break. They take off their shoes by the door and tiptoe around barefoot, their footfalls soft as moths on the waxed floors.

Eventually, Richard whispers, “Do you think he’ll find us here?” 

He is not particularly afraid, as he might have been once. He feels only resignation, curiosity, and something else that he does not want to name.

“I don’t know,” Francis replies, but Richard knows he means: _Yes._

\- X -

_He_ does find them, of course, when they are both drunk and Richard is trying not to cry out as Francis palms his cock through his slacks. _He_ is sitting straight-backed in the armchair, his suit pressed neatly and his hands folded in his lap, as immaculate as he had been when he was still alive.

“Look,” Richard grits out. “Henry’s here.” 

Francis sobers a little, hesitates, so Richard grunts at him, “Don’t stop.” Henry is watching them. There is a hint of challenge, even of expectation, in his expression. Richard kisses Francis without taking his eyes off him.

Francis kisses back and reaches for his zipper with delicate hands, which are unlike Henry’s large ones. Richard arches up into his touch, breathless as pleasure washes white-hot over him, no longer aware of whether he is thinking about Francis or Henry or both.

\- X -

_Richard writes Francis letters in Greek, and Francis reads them aloud, struggling to decipher his schizophrenic writing._ _They watch the sun rise in the mornings, red and swollen and glowing like a jack-o’-lantern. The days are hot and long, and they curse the weather and curse each other. They play cards into the small hours and sleep badly, or not at all. Life goes on. They_ _grow tired and clumsy and paranoid, and Henry laughs at them all the while._

\- X -

They are drinking Colorado Bulldogs on the couch, bored and heavy-limbed and inert, when inspiration strikes Richard.

“The Chevrolet,” Francis repeats back at him.

“Yes,” says Richard. “I want to burn it.”

Henry laughs, the sound ugly and sharp.

The Chevrolet is parked outside in the driveway. It takes Richard two attempts to smash the driver’s window. Glass flies in all directions and he cuts his hand, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t even hurt. He feels violent and ecstatic and alive. They douse the interior with lighter fluid, and then Francis tosses in the match.

A blaze flares up quickly. Wires and tubes decompose; airbags pop and melt. The acrid smell of burning rubber fills the air. The three of them sit on the driveway and watch, giddy with exhilaration. The orange light flickering over Henry’s translucent features makes him look warm and human. He is reciting something in Latin, but Richard can’t make out the words.

The flames climb high into the night.

\- X -

“It reminded me of the bacchanal,” Francis says the morning after, when they are both grey-faced and subdued from lack of sleep and time has resumed its slow, prosaic crawl. 

“It was heart-shaking. Glorious.” Richard says. The words are not his own, and his eyes meet Henry’s across the room. Quite suddenly, he thinks of Camilla and Charles. Where they are now, and whether he had ever really met them at all. Something nameless and unbearable rises up inside him at the thought, and he finds that he can barely draw breath.

He finds himself saying to Francis, “Promise me that you won’t leave.” 

“I promise,” says Francis. His voice is sweet, bitter and tired all at once. “I couldn’t leave. Not even if I wanted to.”

A ray of sun stabs through a gap in the blinds. Richard stares as the harsh light wraps around Francis’s hair, turning it to burnished copper. The silence between them swirls like dust, and the moment settles and hovers and remains for much longer than a moment.

\- X -

_The three of them live on in the crooked house. Their madness is an intimate, familiar thing by now, and it curls around them like a contented and well-fed cat. Dirty dishes pile up in the sink. Gnats descend on a dead mouse, shrinking it to a puff of fur. Francis kisses Richard and tells him that they’re going to be alright, and though Henry looks sceptical, Richard kisses him back anyway. Behind them, bluebottles die and drop to the floor, their iridescent wings gleaming like searchlights. Life goes on, or doesn’t._


End file.
